


Waste Places

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 01:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The investigation of a brutal crime, brings up troubling memories for Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waste Places

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains descriptions of the aftermath of violent crimes, if this bothers you, please don't read! 
> 
> Waste Places was originally published in 'Wounded Heros, Tales of the Big Guys'. Rac, thank you for being such a wonderful editor and working so closely and patiently with me. Thank you Subrosa and Maigret for going above and beyond the call of duty over and over again! You are the very best friends and betas anyone could ask for. Thanks also to Tealin for reformatting this monster for me! Last but not least, thanks to everybody who took the time to send me comments after reading the zine... an unexpected pleasure! 
> 
> I have used // in the place of quotation marks to indicate the characters are speaking Quechua/Chopec. 

## Waste Places

by Virg Vaughn

Author's webpage: <http://www.squidge.org/~virgule/index.html>

Author's disclaimer: PetFly, Paramount, etc. own all rights to these characters. I simply enjoy taking them out for the occasional adventure. 

* * *

Waste Places  
by Virg Vaughn 

I am the lion in his lair,  
I am the fear that frightens me,  
I am the desert of despair,  
And the nights of agony. 

Night or day, whate'er befall,  
I must walk that desert land,  
Until I can dare to call  
The lion out to lick my hand. 

'The Waste Places,' by James Stephens 

The loft was empty. It wasn't silent; nothing was ever silent to him. The small noises of refrigerator, clocks and other appliances bounced off the walls and echoed back at him, repeated over and over until they faded away completely. But the _missing_ sounds . . . . 

Jim closed his eyes and dropped his head back on the couch, rolling it from side to side to ease the tension in his neck. Without volition, his hands moved across the flat planes of his stomach, circling and caressing until they dipped down to his crotch. His fingers ghosted a feather-light caress down the length of his semi-hard cock. 

Undoing the button on his trousers, he unzipped and released his erection. Licking the thumb of his free hand, he gently stroked the moist pad over and around the swollen head in a lingering caress. With his sense of touch dialed up, the feeling was almost too intense. He slowed his strokes down the hard length to an unhurried rhythm, squeezing and fondling his balls, rolling the sensitive testicles back and forth under the velvet skin of their sack. 

Ruthlessly, he pushed away thoughts of how much he wanted this caress to come from someone else's hand, refusing to give himself the comfort of fantasizing, fighting an internal battle to focus only on the physical sensations. It was hard enough sublimating his desire without fueling the fire. 

The coil of arousal tightened unbearably until, finally, he came with a low growl. For long moments he sat there panting, mind carefully blanked. 

God, he hated jerking off anymore. It only left him feeling more empty and alone. Methodically cleaning himself up, he wryly noted how maudlin he was becoming. 

The quiet hum of the loft echoed in his head. He stuffed down the urge to search for the familiar sounds of his partner and went to the fridge to get a beer. The last few days had stretched out endlessly without the sometimes annoying presence of Blair "I'm so charming" Sandburg. Wondering when his life had become so empty without the younger man at his side, Jim slowly shook his head. 'Not gonna go there tonight.' 

The insistent ring of the phone jerked him away from his dark thoughts. Grateful for the interruption, he snatched up the phone. "Ellison." 

Simon's urgent growl wrenched him to attention, "Jim, we've got a bad situation developing. I need you here right away." 

Jim squelched his frustration. At least he hadn't taken more than a couple swigs of beer. Sometimes, he wondered if Simon ever thought of calling anybody else in on the tough cases. "Sure, Simon, I can be there in fifteen. What's up?" 

"It looks like a botched kidnapping. The boy's hurt pretty bad." 

Jim flinched at the news. Under Simon's gruff tone, he heard a reflection of his own loathing of juvenile cases. 

"And Ellison, make that twenty minutes. It's raining and you don't need to set any speed records." 

* * *

The mood in the bullpen was grim. 

Jim perched on the edge of the conference table as his captain paced back and forth. Simon's expression was tense as he went over the evidence they had so far. "The victim was discovered in a driveway over on the west side. Just before he passed out, the kid was able to tell us he'd been working the streets in Seattle. Given the condition he was in, we don't know how he managed to escape from his kidnapper." 

Jim nodded. Simon was right, this one was bad. "How's he doing?" 

"He's still unconscious, and it's a toss up whether he'll live. We don't have an ID on him yet. He was carrying a fake license with the name Jerry Smith, age twenty-one, but the doctors think he's around fifteen." 

"Do we have any witnesses?" 

Simon shrugged. "Rafe and Brown are canvassing the area now. I want you to get out there and see what you can pick up with your senses. This rain is a bitch, but we've got so little to go on, anything will help. I notified the FBI," Simon frowned heavily, "it looks like they're waiting to see what we've got." 

"And with a rent boy as the victim, they're not in any hurry, are they?" Jim's lips twisted with disgust. 

Simon huffed a wordless agreement. 

* * *

Cold rain trickled down his collar as he went over the site where the boy was discovered. Determined to do his best, Jim paced up and down the street in the icy deluge, struggling to stay in control, wishing he had his guide there to ground him. Hours later, the gray light of predawn confirmed what he already knew, there just wasn't anything for him to find. 

When he got back to the station, Simon snorted at his appearance, "You look like a drowned rat, Ellison. Go home, dry out and come back in the afternoon." 

The command rankled; Jim wasn't ready to give up. With every hour, the case would grow colder, and he couldn't let it go. 

Cold, tired and hungry, Jim went home to dry off and change clothes. He paced the loft restlessly, unable to get his mind off the investigation. Juvenile cases were always the worst. Especially when the victims were 'throwaway' kids that nobody seemed to care about. Deciding to check on the victim at Cascade General, he slammed out the door. Hell, maybe he'd get lucky and get a statement. 

At the hospital, it became clear that he wasn't going to get any leads from the victim. The ICU doctor advised him the boy's condition was guarded, and he was still comatose. 

Looking over his reading glasses at Jim, the gray-haired man read off the injuries listed on the patient's chart. "The young man has a severe skull fracture, several broken ribs, a broken clavicle, and major soft tissue damage. How long he'll be unconscious is anybody's guess. We're monitoring him closely for pressure on the brain; if necessary, we'll have to operate to relieve it." 

Jim listened with professional objectivity as the careworn doctor described soft tissue damage due to traumatic anal penetration, with evidence of 'object' rape. With a soft rustle of papers, the doctor continued, "His left nipple is lacerated, possibly from having a nipple piercing torn out." 

An image of Blair's chest sprang into Jim's mind, lightly dusted with soft, fine hair, one dusky nipple pierced by a gleaming, silver ring. Suddenly nauseous, he shuddered, his objectivity shattered. "Thanks for the info, Doc," he muttered, breathing heavily. 

"Are you all right, Detective?" 

"Yeah, I'll be fine-even better when we catch the bastard that did this. I just hope the kid makes it." 

The doctor rested a comforting hand his arm. "There's every chance the young man will pull through. We're doing everything we can." 

Leaning back in the elevator coming down from ICU, Jim thumped his head against the wall in frustration. If the kid died, they would have very little evidence to work with. Without witnesses or leads, the case would fizzle out, leaving another unsolved homicide on the books. They might not even be able to positively identify the victim. He was out of choices: it was either get some sleep, or go back to where the boy was found and try again. The headache beginning to throb at his temples told him he needed the sleep. 

Jim peeled out of the parking lot, venting some of his irritation. Halfway back to the loft, he swore softly to himself. There was no way he could go home. He'd never be able to get any sleep. Making a screaming and highly illegal U-turn, he headed back to where the victim had been found. 

It was a quiet little subdivision, well past its prime, with matching tract homes mirroring each other up and down about five square blocks. The residents were mostly older couples who had moved in when they were young and stayed on after their children had grown up and left home. 

Brown and Rafe were working their way door-to-door up opposite sides of the street. Grateful that the rain had finally stopped, Jim joined Rafe on his way to interview another homeowner. 

"Jim! What are you doing back here? I thought you went home hours ago." Rafe paused, waiting for the older detective to catch up. 

He shrugged. "I wasn't able to get any sleep. You know how it is." 

"Yeah, I know," Rafe smiled diffidently. "I'm glad you're back. A little of that old Ellison charm ought to help with these interviews." 

Jim chuckled at the playful dig and followed Rafe up the sidewalk to the next home. Suddenly, he caught the barest scent of something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Striving to remain calm, he let Rafe knock and stood back to see who answered. 

The door opened, and the smell of decay nearly overpowered him. A large, white-haired man stood there. Heart pounding, Jim struggled to catch his breath. Christ, Jim thought, the guy looked like Santa Claus-if jolly old Saint Nick were a few years younger and in better shape. Rafe looked at him with a worried frown. Avoiding the question in Rafe's eyes, Jim hissed, "Do your thing and let's get out of here." 

While Rafe went through his routine questions, Jim scrutinized the man standing in the doorway. There was no nervousness reflected in his easy manner, no quickening of his heartbeat. If it weren't for the smell making his guts knot, he'd never have known that he was looking at evil personified. 

With a courteous thanks, Rafe completed the interview. Jim waited until the door shut before taking the younger detective's elbow and practically frog-marching him down the sidewalk. 

"Jim-what the hell do you think you're doing?" 

"Rafe, trust me. We've found the guy, and this is going to be very, very messy." 

"What do you mean? And how the hell do you figure this is the guy?" Jim pushed Rafe out the gate. "I just know. He's the perp. Now all we've got to do is get inside that house." 

"And you 'knowing' is going to give us probable cause?" Rafe rolled his eyes, his expression dubious. 

"Hell, no!" Ellison snarled. He took a deep breath trying to calm the tension that pulled at him, making his joints ache. "We're going to find something that will justify asking for a warrant and then we're gonna put that bastard away for a million years." His anger radiated outward like a mushroom cloud. 

Rafe took a cautious step backward. "Okay, okay. That's what we'll do. Any suggestions on where to start?" 

Jim was already ignoring the younger detective. He was on the scent like a bloodhound. Eyes that saw impossibly small details scanned the driveway and sidewalk they'd just traversed; there was nothing there that didn't belong. 

Jim inhaled deeply, but the only thing out of place was the smell of death. God, what he wouldn't do to have Sandburg here right now. He closed his eyes and concentrated on each individual scent. Running through his mind was a steady stream of Blairchatter. If Sandburg knew how often he used this memory 'tape', he'd be fascinated and probably make him recount every word. No way would Jim ever divulge that this was how he gained control when he didn't have his guide with him. 

'Breathe, Jim. Just relax and center. You know what smells belong-all you have to do is pick out what isn't right.' Backing up the stream of words was the memory of a warm, square palm at the small of his back, tracing slow circles of calm and contentment over his skin and up and down his spine. 

Wet grass, moss and clover-he took another breath-a fresh patch of motor oil, the dogs in the yard across the street. Jim struggled to ignore the pressure across his forehead that warned he was reaching too far. With a jerk, he opened his eyes to see Rafe watching him in confusion. 

"You okay, Jim? You're looking pretty beat. Maybe you should go home and catch a little shut eye?" 

His eyes narrowed at the concern in Rafe's tone. Since when did he fall apart after a sleepless night? Jim smiled thinly. "I'm fine. And you're looking a little whipped yourself." 

Warm color rushed into Rafe's cheeks, and he nodded without meeting Jim's eyes. 

Closing his eyes, Jim began cataloging scents again. There! Something different . . . the metallic tang of blood. Extremely faint, it hovered on the edge of the rank odor of garbage. He followed the scent to the trashcans at the end of the driveway, scanning the area for evidence. Something on the ground between the two cans caught the light. 

"Rafe, hand me an evidence bag." Jim pulled on a latex glove and retrieved the object. His enhanced vision revealed tiny bits of tissue and blood adhering to the small, beaded nipple ring. Holding the ring out, he showed it to Rafe before sliding it into the bag. 

"This will do it. Now we just need to get it back to forensics and wait for the results." 

"What has that ring got to do with this case, Jim?" Rafe looked more puzzled than ever. Thankfully, he didn't suffer from the Sandburg curse of running off at the mouth to the point where Jim could never get a word in, even to answer rapid-fire questions. 

"I went over the victim's injuries at the hospital. The kid had a pierced nipple. _Had_ being the key word. The bastard ripped it out, and I'm sure this is it." 

Rafe winced at the brutal description. "It's _amazing_ that you saw it there. I never noticed a thing. How did you know what to look for?" 

Jim shrugged, avoiding Rafe's incredulous gaze. 

"Just got lucky." Glancing down at his watch, he continued, "We've really got to get moving on this. Serena should be on duty in twenty minutes. I'm gonna take this down to the station. Why don't you go find Brown and both of you catch a little shut eye?" 

"Hold on, Jim. You've been on this as long as we have. Longer. You were called back in last night after working day shift. Don't you think it would be better for me and H to take that in while _you_ get some sleep?" 

"I'm not so ancient that a little lost sleep will do me in. I need to talk to Simon, so I might as well take the evidence in, too." He headed back to his truck. 

"Jim . . . . Ellison, wait up." Rafe jogged to catch up with Jim's ground-eating stride. "Are you ditching me?" 

"Hell, Rafe, if you feel you have to come along, do it. I'm not ditching you, but I'm not turning this over to you, either. Simon put me in charge of this case. Don't make me pull rank on you." 

Jim ignored the offended look Rafe gave him. There was no time for niceties; the case was about to blow wide open. He needed to get to Simon and get a plan in place, one that would protect the younger detectives. Once they uncovered what was waiting for them in that house, things were going to turn ugly. Jim breathed silent thanks that Blair was still buried in his work at the U. 

* * *

"Serena ought to have the test results back to us any time now, Simon." Jim was hunched in a chair across the desk from his Captain. "We can't get a DNA match for at least a couple of weeks, but a match on the blood type ought to be enough to justify a warrant." 

Simon passed Jim a cup of coffee. "I don't doubt for a minute that you're right. Now tell me the rest of the story." 

"It's not good, Simon. I caught a whiff of it just outside the house. When this McNamara guy opened his door, I damned near passed out from the smell." 

Simon leaned against his desk, long legs stretched out in front of him, frustration and fatigue written on his scowling features. "Caught a whiff of what?" 

"Death. Decay. Rot." Jim shook his head. "There're bodies somewhere in that house." 

"Dear Lord! Are you sure? How many? Could you tell where they were?" 

"No, Simon. He didn't invite us in. But I've smelled that odor often enough to know there's no mistaking it." Jim slumped even lower in the chair. 

Simon clenched his jaw. "I know that smell a little too well myself. Did Rafe pick up on it?" 

"He didn't seem to notice. Maybe it was faint enough he couldn't tell," Jim shrugged. The odor was overwhelming to him. It seemed unbelievable that anyone could miss it. 

"Once again, this Sentinel thing has been a blessing. If you hadn't been with Rafe, we never would have known." 

Jim shifted uncomfortably. Right at the moment he wouldn't call it a blessing, but he was too damn tired to argue the point. 

"I want this arrest to go by the numbers, Captain. No foul-ups, nothing some hotshot lawyer can use to throw the case out of court. If I'm right, McNamara has been at this for quite a while. There'll be a stash of bodies there that will start the press on a feeding frenzy." 

Jim paused, hopeful Simon would agree to his next recommendation. "I think you ought to keep the younger guys off the rest of the investigation. There's no need to have them spending time on a therapist's couch over what we're going to find." Jim tipped his head toward the bullpen where Brown and Rafe were waiting, casting curious glances at Simon's office. 

"You know I can't do that. Brown and Rafe have put in as much time on this case as you have, and Connor's spent hours slogging through missing persons files, trying to ID the victim." 

"Simon, you _know_ what this will involve. Why do that to them?" Jim's hands clenched into fists on his lap. He didn't want to beg for this, but he would. 

"I understand, Jim," Simon's reply was uncharacteristically gentle. His face reflected a wealth of sadness. Straightening up, he cleared his throat, command voice back in full force. "You, Taggart and I will serve the warrant. _But_ , " he held Jim's gaze, "the junior detectives have as much right to be part of this investigation as we do. I can't take them off of the case. We'll do what we can to keep them clear of the really rough stuff, though." 

Jim knew with a sinking feeling any further argument would be wasted. 

"Simon." He rose and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We both know that the other victims probably fit the same MO as the kid down at Cascade General . . . . He's not much younger than Daryl." Jim's jaw tensed as he searched for words. 

The Captain's level gaze never wavered as he waited for Jim to continue. 

"You might be needed here, if we find what we're looking for-if it's what I think it is . . . ." 

Simon's aggressive stance relaxed a little. "It's okay, Jim. Thanks for wanting to protect me, to protect us all." He chuckled a little ruefully. "You're not just Blair's 'Blessed Protector', are you?" 

Jim shrugged. "I guess it goes with the territory. Besides, this is every cop's worst nightmare, the thing we pray we never have to deal with. I've dealt with it before and I know just what it can take away from you." 

"Military?" 

"I can't answer that," Jim softened the flat refusal with a half smile. "Let's just say it was a long time ago, but the memories have managed to stick with me." 

Simon patted Jim's back. "Let's get this warrant and get things moving. What have you got on the suspect?" 

Jim picked up the printout he'd brought into Simon's office. "Leonard McNamara, age 57, occupation: warehouse manager for North Pacific Rim Shipping, Inc. Married to Myrtle Claremont in 1972, divorced eight years later. No children. No prior arrests or convictions." 

"Clean as a whistle, huh?" 

"Let's just say he hasn't been caught. From what I smelled, he makes your common, ordinary murderer look like a jaywalker." 

The phone on Simon's desk rang. He answered and listened intently for a minute. "That's good work, Chang. Get the paperwork to me as soon as you can." 

Hanging up, he looked over at Jim. "Did you get that?" The muscle in Jim's jaw flexed as he nodded. 

"I'll get the warrant request to the judge and have everything wrapped up in about forty-five minutes. You go get Taggart and round up whatever uniforms we'll need." 

Selecting uniformed backup was hard. He picked three seasoned veterans, all of them older, experienced and tough as nails. Two of them had military backgrounds and none of them had children still living at home. It was an ugly reminder of what he'd hated most about his time in the army, choosing the men to do the dirty work, to take the risks . . . to die. 

He dreaded giving Joel a rundown on what he expected to find in McNamara's house. Those velvet brown eyes were impossible to meet while he was painting the ugly description. Surprisingly, Joel threw an arm across Jim's shoulders. "Don't worry, Jim . . . no matter how bad it gets, you know you'll have me and Simon right there beside you." 

Jim shook his head in bewilderment. How the hell did the older man figure that _he_ was the one needing a pep talk? Much as he liked the former bomb squad captain, he'd given up on making sense of Taggart. Joel and Blair were kindred souls in their ability to come up with responses that confused the hell out of him. 

After a briefing with Simon, they headed out. Following his captain through the garage, the ground suddenly shifted beneath Jim's feet and a grating scream cut through his head. He stumbled, grabbing the cold concrete wall to keep from falling. 

Simon was beside him. "Jim . . . Jim!" 

He straightened quickly, looking around. No one else seemed to have heard anything, and the floor seemed steady again. Simon put a supporting hand on his back. "Jim, are you okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah. Sure thing, Captain. Just . . . stumbled. I'm fine-100 percent." He shook his head, fighting to appear calm. What the _hell_ was that? 

Simon was unconvinced. It showed in the narrowing of his eyes and the even grimmer lines of his face. "I know all about your 100 percent, Ellison. What happened?" 

"Like I said, Captain, I stumbled. I was concentrating too hard or something . . . ." 

"If you're having zone-outs, maybe you should stay here until Sandburg can come in." 

"No! Simon, we agreed," Jim gritted out. "He can't be part of this. I'll be fine. I just need to get this over with and get some shut eye." 

Simon muttered an agreement. "We're all running short on sleep. Why don't you ride with me?" 

Jim rolled his shoulders trying to release the tension in them. It was a losing battle. "Yeah, think I'll take you up on that one." 

The ride was silent; both men focused on what was ahead of them. Jim caught himself wondering what Sandburg was doing. With a little luck, by tomorrow his overtaxed guide should be free from his commitments at the university for a few weeks. It would be good to have him around again. 

All too soon, they were pulling up in front of 633 Northwind. McNamara was home, his aging, dusty station wagon parked in front of the garage. Simon and Jim went to the door after the others were stationed around the house in case the suspect tried to flee. 

McNamara betrayed some surprise at seeing them, but was serenely pleasant as he invited them in to serve the warrant. "Come on in, gentlemen. I don't often get visitors, or a chance to give people a tour of my home." 

Jim glanced at Simon. Their eyes met for a moment, and he raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. "Thank you for the offer, Mr. McNamara, but we'd prefer to look around on our own." 

While Jim followed McNamara into the tidy little kitchen, Simon stepped out to call in the other detectives. 

"Can I get you a cup of coffee, Detective?" 

Keeping the revulsion off his face was difficult. "No, thank you." He was saved from having to continue by Simon's return. 

"Mr. McNamara, this is Inspector Connors. She will be staying with you while we conduct our search." 

The old man beamed at Megan. "How nice to meet you, Inspector." His manners were impeccable. "I was just asking Detective Ellison if he'd like some coffee. Can I get you a cup?" 

Megan eyed McNamara as she answered, clearly surprised by his manner. She cast a doubtful look at Jim and Simon. Behind McNamara's back, Jim shrugged and motioned for Simon to follow him into the living room. 

Joel, Henri and Rafe searched the upstairs, while Jim walked slowly through the ground level, his face twisted by the stench. 

"Can you tell where it's coming from, Jim?" Simon dogged his steps, keeping a wary eye on his reactions. Circling the postage-stamp-sized living room, Simon pointed toward the ceiling. 

Jim shook his head. "The smell is definitely coming from below, from a cellar or basement." 

He went back into the kitchen. Connor and McNamara were sitting comfortably at the table, drinking coffee and talking. 

Pausing in front of a closed door, he interrupted, "Where does this door lead, Mr. McNamara?" 

"Just to the basement. There's not much down there. I always meant to finish it off and make it into a shop or something. Never quite got around to it." He smiled warmly at Jim, looking every inch like a kindly uncle. His beard was long, but neatly trimmed and his bushy, white eyebrows wriggled when he talked. The effect was so surreal, Jim was almost convinced his senses had somehow deceived him. 

His doubts vanished as he opened the door. The blast of foul air swept away his breath. It took everything he had not to stagger backwards. 

"Jim, are you okay? What have you got?" Only Simon's hand on his shoulder kept him grounded. 

"It's okay, Simon." He flipped a switch just inside the door, and the stairs were bathed in harsh fluorescent light. "You don't need to come with me." 

"I'm right behind you, Ellison." 

Jim looked back, muttering, "You'd be better off staying up here." 

Simon didn't answer, just kept his hand on Jim's shoulder as he followed. With every step down the narrow wooden stairwell, the odor of death became thicker. Grimly, he continued, ignoring the voice in his head screaming at him to get away. 

The basement was tiny, hardly a quarter of the square footage of the house. There were a couple battered chairs and a dartboard, with shelves and cardboard boxes lining the back wall. Simon took in the area with a quick sweep, noting the cement floor and turned a nonplussed look to Jim. 

"There's nothing here, Jim. What did you expect to find?" 

"Can't you smell that, Simon?" He could feel himself shaking as a trickle of sweat slid down his temple. 

Simon inhaled deeply, his mouth twisting in disgust. "It smells damp and musty. A lot like an old basement." He inhaled again. "There might be something . . . dead here, but it could be mice." 

Ignoring the doubt in his captain's tone, Jim made his way slowly around the room. The still, damp air made it simple to follow the scent to its source. Moving the empty boxes, Jim looked at the seams in the paneling of the wall. 

"Do you see something there?" 

"I'm not sure, Captain. This is where the smell seems to be coming from." 

There was a slightly wider crease between two of the panels. He visually traced the seam from floor to ceiling. Stepping forward, he pushed along the edge. The section of wall gave, pivoting on a hidden axis. 

The strength of the fetid stench drove him to his knees. Eyes watering, he scrambled to his feet, stumbling back into Simon. Flickering light from the fluorescent fixture overhead filtered into the opening, revealing the interior of the hidden room to his enhanced vision. 

"What do you see, Jim?" 

He couldn't answer, couldn't stop himself from staring through the shadowed entrance into the hell beyond. 

The walls were gray concrete, unadorned by paint or paneling or anything other than the shackles attached to thick eyebolts secured at shoulder height. A heavy, wooden table stood not far from the wall, fetters attached to each of the legs. A smaller table held a collection of surgical instruments along with other less identifiable items. The metal of the instruments laid out on the table gleamed as if polished. There was no sign of blood; McNamara kept his playroom immaculate. 

"Jim, what do you see?" Simon repeated. "Oh, Christ, I can smell it now too." 

Jim's eyes flickered to the rough mounds of dirt beyond the tables. The bodies. "Captain, you better get on the horn and get forensics here fast." 

Simon nodded, his gaze riveted on the opening, his dusky skin taking on a grayish tone. He took a step, as if he couldn't help himself; whatever horror lay behind the door drew him forward. Jim responded instantly, grabbing the larger man by the biceps and anchoring him in place. 

"Don't go in there yet. Call forensics. Call the FBI. Go upstairs and have Connor read McNamara his rights. Anything. Just don't go in there. Not right now." Jim's voice was urgent, but gentle. He needed time to assimilate the situation before trying to cope with the reactions of his friends. 

"Jim, you know we'll have to check it out and bag the evidence. We're all going to be needed, you can't protect us from this. There's no help for it." 

"I know, Captain. Just . . . let me handle this for now. We can't touch anything until forensics gets here, anyway. Let me take a look around and check it out. You go make those calls." 

Simon looked at him doubtfully. "I'll send down Taggart and the others. Wait for them." 

Jim shrugged and waved Simon back toward the stairs. The voice in his head was still screaming, but now there was a new addition: the heavy pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. Between the two, his head ached so badly, it felt like his skull was imploding. He hadn't prayed in nearly twenty years, yet now he was mumbling to himself, to his creator, to whatever entity that would listen. "Please, please, let this be over quickly . . . ." 

Squaring his shoulders, Jim took one slow step after the other until he was through the swinging panel. 

* * *

The bodies were surprisingly neat. One of the perks of working for a shipping company seemed to be access to quantities of plastic shrink-wrap. McNamara was an orderly man. After he finished with his victims, he'd meticulously wrapped the bodies into bundles before burying them in careful stacks. 

Simon took one look at the pale and visibly shaken Connor and Rafe and sent them to the station with McNamara for booking. Brown was assigned to mollifying the growing crowd of curious neighbors. 

"Captain, we've got reporters showing up." Henri stood at the front door, looking reluctant to set foot back in the house. 

"Call in some more uniforms and set up barricades." Simon was talking with the Mayor's office on his cell and barking out directions to the coroner and forensic teams. 

"I've already got that covered. They're asking how soon before they can get a statement." 

Simon snarled, "When I'm damned good and ready." 

Brown flinched, cautiously backing away. 

"I'll give you a hand with that, H." Joel stepped in, placing himself between Simon and Brown. "Between the two of us, we ought to be able to keep them out of the Captain's hair." 

Jim stayed in the basement, coordinating the exhumation as layer after layer of corpses were revealed. The ones at the bottom had been buried for quite a while. It was a toss-up which was worse: the more recent bodies revealing every bit of the grotesque tortures and dismemberment they'd endured, or the badly decomposed ones with disintegrating plastic falling apart as they were handled. 

"Ellison! You still down there?" Simon's voice reverberated down the stairwell. 

Taking the steps two at a time, he answered, "Yeah, just waiting for forensics to finish taking pictures." 

Simon held out a small bottle. "Here, the guys gave me this. Just dab a little under your nose." 

Jim sniffed at the bottle. "Peppermint oil?" A tingling burn started as soon as he rubbed a small amount on his fingertips. 

"Yeah. Nobody had any Vick's; they said this would work just as well. It's what they use." 

"I don't think I can, Simon." 

Simon's voice dropped, "The Sentinel thing?" 

"Yeah." He shrugged, not bothering to mention he'd had his sense of smell dialed down to zero for the past two hours. 

"The coroner's team ran out of body bags again. There's gonna be a delay before we can remove the rest of the bodies." 

"No problem, Captain. I'll do what I can to help forensics. I don't know how much longer Serena's going to be able to hold out." He resisted the urge to shudder as he went back down to the basement. 

Serena surprised him, lasting twice as long as he thought she would. Finally, overwhelmed by the carnage, she stumbled out of the basement. She protested weakly, mortified by her inability to continue, while Jim helped her to her car. 

Taggart . . . now there was an enigma. Jim assumed the man would fall apart once they started uncovering the bodies. But Joel stayed. Quiet and strong, sometimes weeping silent tears for the lost, he'd stayed until Simon ordered him home. 

Simon was exhausted, almost swaying on his feet by the time last body was removed. He held his ground when the Feds finally showed up, determined to somehow take credit for the bust themselves. Same old song and dance, but Jim's captain was too damned smart and too damned angry for them to get very far with it. After a bit of posturing, they backed off, betraying a grudging respect. 

Only training and the hard-earned ability to blank his mind and focus on what he had to do kept Jim going. The intense throbbing behind his eyes made him long to draw his piece and put a bullet through his brain. For the umpteenth time, he wished for a clean, peaceful place, where he could wrap himself up in his guide and sleep for a week. 

* * *

Shoulders slumped with fatigue, Blair struggled through the door of the darkened apartment. Damn, Jim wasn't home yet. He tossed his keys in the general direction of the basket, not caring where they landed. The loft held the chill of abandonment, as if the place had been deserted for weeks. Shivering slightly at the feeling, he dragged his coat off his shoulders. 

The past few days had been hell. He'd somehow managed to slog through the extra work that exploded during finals week, but it had meant working days that began before five and ended after midnight. The past two nights, he'd slept in his office, deciding that the drive home cut into valuable time he just didn't have. 

As he headed to the kitchen for something to eat, Blair punched the button on the answering machine. He paused when he heard the deep resonance of his partner's voice. 

"Hey, Chief, things are kind of crazy here. I'll probably be back late, don't worry about coming to the station. Well, uh . . . guess I'll see you later." 

Blair frowned. Something was wrong, really wrong. Something about that tone . . . . Jim sounded beyond tired, almost-lost. The rest of the messages were nothing important. After them came a series of hang-ups. It was crazy, but he _knew_ they were from Jim. He had been feeling a vague sense of foreboding the past few hours that he hadn't been able to shake. Figuring it was just pressure from end-of-term craziness and too little sleep getting him down, he'd done his best to ignore it. 

With the hollow echo of Jim's words repeating in his head, he called the station. Rafe picked up after the fourth ring. 

"Hi, Rafe, what's happening, man? Where's Jim?" Blair shifted from foot to foot impatiently. 

"He's not here." There was long a pause. "Do you want me to give him a message?" 

Frowning, Blair felt his stomach start to tighten. It didn't take a rocket scientist to tell that Rafe was distracted by something. "That's okay, I'll just give him a call on the cell." 

"No, don't do that!" Rafe cleared his throat nervously. "He's . . . he's just not available for calls right now. If you want, I can get him a message." 

"What is it you're not telling me? Did something happen to Jim? Has he been hurt? I can be down there in twenty minutes." 

"No, don't! Blair, listen. It's just a case and uh, don't take this the wrong way, but Simon's given instructions there's to be _no_ civilian involvement. You really can't be here right now." Rafe's voice was fraught with tension. 

Feeling like he had been slapped, Blair went completely still. 'Civilian involvement?' Considering he was the only civilian regularly involved with Major Crimes, it was clear that Simon meant that _he_ wasn't to be involved. "So, what is it you're not telling me, Rafe? What kind of case is it-why can't I be there?" Something about this stank to high heaven. 

"Come on, Blair. It wasn't my decision. I'll have Jim give you a call as soon as he checks in, okay?" Rafe tried to placate Blair, but it only set his teeth on edge. 

Blair exhaled the breath he'd been holding, abruptly giving up. "Fine, just tell Jim I called. He can get back to me whenever he has the time." It took an effort not to slam the phone into the cradle. 

What kind of case would make Simon bar him from the station? Thoughts of crazed terrorists and escaped psychopaths whirled round in his head. 

Brow furrowed, Blair thought about the brief phone conversation with his partner the night before. Jim had been distant, but from a guy who never had much to say in the first place, it wasn't unusual. Looking back, Jim had seemed almost relieved that Blair wasn't coming home, but at the time it hadn't registered; he had been too damned tired to notice. 

Losing all interest in eating, Blair wandered over to the couch and picked up the remote as he flung himself down. He surfed until he came up with a local station just beginning their late news. All thought froze as he gaped at the horrific story unfolding on the screen. 

The calm drone of the reporter's voice gave a chilling quality to the story about the discovery of a suspected serial killer. Behind the reporter, a modest, whitewashed home was lit with powerful klieg lights. The camera panned the front lawn, revealing the dark shapes of multiple body bags laid out in orderly rows. Two men wearing coroner's uniforms came through the front door, dragging another body bag between them. Two more men followed, both tall and powerfully built. 

Sucking in his breath, he realized it was Jim and Simon. Jim held out one hand to shield his eyes, flinching at the bright light. Blair leaned forward, ignoring the newscaster's continuing prattle as he focused on his partner. 

"Shit, shit, shit . . . ." Blair clicked off the TV. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the picture in his mind. How many body bags had there been? Guilt washed over him as he realized how grateful he was to be home, safe in the loft and far away from the crime scene. 

What the hell was he doing here? His place was beside his Sentinel, and he had been too wrapped up with his own concerns to even realize that Jim needed him. Fuck that! Swallowing convulsively, Blair sprang up from the couch and grabbed his jacket. 

The phone began ringing before he finished pulling it on. He spun on his heel, seizing it partway through the second ring. 

"Sandburg? I was wondering if you'd made it home yet." Jim's voice came through the connection sounding distant and weary. 

"Jim! Hey man, I just saw the news and was heading out to find you." 

"No . . . don't do that. You stay put. There's no need for you to be here right now . . . ." Jim's voice trailed off and he took a deep breath. "No civilians on this case, Chief. It's too high profile." 

Blair was unconvinced. The Sentinel sounded exhausted, and he knew that fatigue and stress played havoc with Jim's senses. "What if you zone out, Jim? It looks like you've got a lot of media attention right now." 

"Everything's fine, I don't want you to worry. We're wrapping it up. The Feds are taking over now that the dirty work is done." 

"I don't like it, Jim. You know you could use my help." Why couldn't the stubborn Sentinel ever admit that he needed him? 

"I said don't _worry_ about it, Sandburg. You're not needed here right now!" 

"Fine. We'll talk about it when you get home." The hostility he'd been trying to hold back came through loud and clear. 'Damn it!' If Jim thought Blair was going to let himself be shut out this time, he was sadly mistaken. _Not_ this time. 

His voice heavy and weary, Jim answered, "No, Chief, there's nothing to discuss. I'll see you at home." 

Shaking with anger, Blair gave vent to his frustration by slamming down the phone. Fine, just fine. Jim didn't need him; Simon vetoed his mere _presence_. So what now? Was he going to sit here and feel sorry for himself? Shit! Why should he stand for being treated like an interloper? 

Flinging himself back down on the couch, Blair stared out the window, wearily rubbing his face with both hands. He didn't have the reserves left to fight about it further tonight. 

In the small hours of the morning, tossing and turning in bed, Blair wondered how much longer he could tolerate the situation. It was useless; no matter what he did or didn't do, nothing seemed to get past the steel-clad armor Jim Ellison wrapped around himself. Even after almost three years, every time Blair thought he'd found a chink in that armor, a place where the Sentinel might finally let him in, he discovered another door slamming in his face. 

* * *

After over forty hours on the job, James Ellison was nearing the end of his rope. His chest felt like it had been hollowed out with a dull spoon; all of his reserves were spent. Odd, internal tremors told him he should be shaking like a leaf, but his hands were steady and his breathing regular. 

He huffed a sigh of relief when he found the locker room deserted. Collapsing on the bench next to the showers, he knew he had to keep moving or he'd shut down right there. He pulled off the stinking remains of what had been a favorite pair of slacks and shirt, swiftly skinning off his shorts and socks. All of the clothes went into the closest trash bin. After a slight hesitation, Jim picked up his shoes and threw them in, too. 

Making his way to the showers, he twisted on the faucets and stepped under the stinging spray. Leaning one arm against the tiled wall, he turned his face into the force of the steaming water. God, he _had_ to wash away the stench that seemed embedded in his skin. It still hung so heavily in his nostrils, he could taste it. Decay-the putrid smell of death. How could he think he was used to it, immune to the way it knotted his belly, pushing beyond simple nausea and sickening him to his soul? 

Rigidly forcing down all thought-hell, he could do that, he'd had years of practice-Jim began to systematically soap his body. Keeping the water hot enough to almost scald, he scrubbed until his skin felt raw. Still, he could smell the taint of death clinging to him. As he began to lather up once again, the tremors he'd been battling on and off for hours finally hit. Hands shaking so hard he could no longer hold on to the soap, he watched it skitter away as his legs gave out. Collapsing onto the hard tile floor, he rested his forehead on his knees and let the hot water spray over him. 

The punishing heat couldn't wash away the odor in his nostrils, which brought back memories that threatened to push him over the edge. Nothing would remove the scent that took him to a time and a place he had struggled to forget for almost twenty years. The ghosts he thought were safely locked away rose up all around him. Shudders rocked through him as he relived the memories he had buried for so long. 

//The first massacre his team stumbled upon was probably the worst. The tiny village lay in smoldering ruins. Why the villagers were slaughtered by the so-called 'freedom fighters', he never knew. A few of the corpses were incinerated by the fire. But the majority escaped the flames, drawing a variety of insects and scavengers out of the warm, moist heat of the jungle to begin nature's clean up. 

He didn't know how he managed to keep down the remains of his breakfast. The tiniest bodies were the worst. His disgust at handling their rotting remains was overwhelmed by an almost crippling grief for these most helpless of victims.// 

Distant voices finally brought Jim back to groggy awareness. How long had he sat here on the shower floor? It didn't feel like any kind of zone-out he'd had before. Struggling, he rose to his feet, firmly placing a blank mask over his features. 

The door of the locker room burst open as the first of the morning shift entered. Nodding a greeting, they moved to their lockers to change for the day's work. 

Jim turned his back on the men as he went to his locker, grabbing the sweats he kept stashed there. During his rookie days, he'd discovered that one of the ugly realities of police work was the disgusting frequency of being puked on, pissed on or worse. Thank God, he was still in the habit of keeping a complete change of clothes on hand. 

Functioning on autopilot, Jim finished dressing and made his way to his truck. The drive home took on a nightmare quality, as if he were moving down a long, dark tunnel. It would have been smarter to grab a ride home with a black and white, but his higher reasoning had shut down hours before. It was a relief to finally pull the truck into its parking space. By concentrating hard on placing one foot in front of the other, he managed get up to the loft. 

* * *

Blair glanced up from his laptop as he heard Jim come in the door. He held back the words that threatened to choke him, knowing he could never reveal the depth of his hurt. 

But all of his angry thoughts fled as he looked at his partner. The older man sagged against the door, skin pale with fatigue, his features drawn and harsh, revealing lines that wouldn't be apparent for another decade. The normally bright blue eyes were a muddy gray, and they met his stare with a chilling emptiness. 

"Jim, man, you look bad. Are you okay? Can I get you anything? What happened on the case? Why didn't you want me there?" 

Waving an arm to fend off the rapid-fire questions, Jim slowly walked past him, moving to the bottom of the stairs to his loft. Shaking his head, he slowly responded. "Not now, Chief, just . . . tired, gonna go to bed." 

Blair's eyes widened as Jim missed the second step, falling to his hands and knees. Leaping over the back of the couch, he grabbed the broad shoulders and hauled backward. Jim staggered for a moment, then pulled himself rigidly upright. Wrapping his arms around the stiff body, Blair kept a tight grip around the larger man's waist. 

"It's okay. I'm okay . . . you can let go now." 

"No way man, you'll never make it by yourself. Let me help you up." Pondering the suggestion for long moments, Jim finally nodded his head and allowed Blair to brace him as he staggered up the steps. 

Pausing next to the bed, Blair let go of the exhausted man to draw back the covers. Blair placed his hand against the muscular chest, gently pushing the automaton to the mattress. Jim lay still, his eyes closed, clenching and unclenching his square jaw. 

Making short work of the running shoes, Blair noted absently that he hadn't seen Jim wear this particular pair before. What was the big guy doing in a set of CPD sweats? Blair was embarrassingly conversant with Jim's wardrobe, achingly familiar with every crisp, new shirt, every fleecy pair of sweats. With a shrug, he grabbed the waistband of the pants in order to strip them down. Abruptly aware that Jim wasn't wearing any underwear, he snatched his hands away as if he had been burned. 

A furious blush spreading across his cheeks, Blair glanced up to see if Jim had seen his reaction. No, his eyes were still shut. With a sigh of relief, he paused to consider what to do next. Shrugging, he decided pulling Jim's clothes off while he was in this condition wasn't worth the effort. He grabbed powerful calves and lifted Jim's legs onto the mattress with a grunt. 

Standing back, Blair studied the older man intently. Jim's breathing was slow and regular, and if he wasn't asleep, at least he was pretending to be. Blair pulled a light comforter over him and turned to go back downstairs. 

"Thanks, Chief." 

Blair looked back at the bed in surprise. Jim lay there with his eyes still closed, giving no sign he'd spoken. 

"Hey, no problem. You get some sleep." 

A real thank you. Smiling to himself, Blair went downstairs. He made a cup of coffee and settled on the couch. At first he tried to read, finally giving it up when he realized he was nodding off. It wouldn't hurt to catch a nap. Last night had been an agony of sleeplessness, and the long week was catching up with him. 

Blair started out of an uneasy doze with a jerk. What the hell was that? There it was again. Something between a moan and a sob. Jim? Rolling off the couch, he came to his feet and rushed up to the loft. 

"Jim, you okay?" 

Only a low moan answered his query. He was staggered; his partner was in the throes of a nightmare unlike anything he'd ever seen. 

Jim moved restlessly, his hands alternately clenching into white-knuckled fists or clawing at unseen demons. His sweatshirt was soaked along the neckline, the damp trailing toward his chest. 

A master at keeping his emotions to himself, Jim normally maintained a stone face far better than any Easter Island statue. Blair had never seen his features like this, twisted into lines of pure agony, mouth open and gasping, sobbing for breath. Tears trailed down Jim's cheeks, melting into the sweat and the pain. A guttural snarl emerged, "No, no, no! Get back, get back, get back . . . ." 

Blair had to wake his partner, but . . . he hesitated. Early on, Jim had warned Blair to never touch him while he was sleeping. His training made him react as if threatened, striking out at whatever startled him out of sleep. Blair really didn't feel like nursing bruises or a broken jaw. 

"Jim! Come on, Jim. Wake up. You're having a nightmare." He did his best to stay calm, pitching his voice in urgent, but non-alarming tones, which didn't seem to have much effect. 

"Jim, hey, guy. You need to wake up now. Come on, I know you're in there. Let's get with the program. Wakey, wakey." Shit, no dice. If anything, Jim seemed even more distressed, his breathing a steady grinding moan. 

"Damn it, Jim! Wake up right now!" Blair clapped a hand over his mouth. He hadn't meant to sound quite so strident. But it accomplished what the softer tones hadn't; Jim's eyelashes fluttered as his breathing evened out. Slow recognition finally appeared on his face, warming the cold knot of dread that tightened in Blair's gut. He reached out to place a hand on Jim's chest. "You awake now? You were having one hell of a nightmare." 

Jim swallowed hard, his throat moving reflexively. "Yeah." The low rasp sent a shiver through Blair. 

"Are you okay? Want me to get you some water?" At Jim's nod, he went to get a bottle from the fridge. After a moment's thought, he took out a dishtowel and dampened it. When he returned, Jim was sitting up and struggling to get out of his sweatshirt. He was strangely uncoordinated, his pupils dilated to a disconcerting degree. 

"Let me give you a hand." Blair grabbed the bottom of the shirt, stripping it off over his head. Seeing how unsteady Jim's hands were, Blair opened the water bottle and helped lift it to his lips. After several long swallows, Jim pulled back and rubbed a hand across his chest, wrinkling his nose at the sweat that pooled there. 

Setting the water aside, Blair picked up the dishtowel. He wiped the sweat away from his partner's face with long slow strokes, moving gently down over his throat and chest. 

Blair began a low, crooning chatter to fill the silence. "There you go, tough guy. That's a lot better, isn't it? You're feeling a lot better now. It was only a bad dream. I'm right here and you're safe at home . . . ." 

Jim's eyes closed, contentment finally smoothing out the tension in his face, softening the harsh slash of his mouth. Soon he was breathing rhythmically, almost asleep. 

Blair rose to put the towel and water bottle away and was startled when Jim's hand shot out and gripped his forearm. "Don't go, Chief." It was a question and a plea. There was no way Blair could resist that hoarse request. Setting his burdens down on the table, he perched on the edge of the bed. 

"I'm here, Jim. I'm right here." 

"Stay with me?" It was the faintest of whispers; he wouldn't have understood the words if he hadn't been watching Jim's lips move. 

"I'm staying. Wild horses couldn't drag me away." This brought a small lift to Jim's lips and an answering smile to his. He'd never felt this needed by Jim before, even in the early days when the Sentinel's senses had him walking the razor's edge of insanity. 

"Good." Almost an exhalation of breath rather than a word. 

With a boldness that he wouldn't have had mere hours before, Blair reached out and took Jim's hand in his. The answering squeeze confirmed his instincts. He sat patiently and uncharacteristically still, watching over Jim while he slept. 

It felt good doing this, guarding his Sentinel against whatever demons were haunting his sleep. The fear that had dogged him the night before was discarded. Jim needed this, needed him. 

Making up his mind, Blair decided that he wouldn't let the stubborn man push him away. Every Sentinel had someone to watch their backs, and for this Sentinel, it was Blair Sandburg. He was Jim's Guide, his shaman, and he wasn't going to let him forget it. Yawning, Blair gingerly lay down next to the sleeping man. 

He closed his eyes, mumbling as he drifted off, "You're so damned bullheaded, but I'm not going to let you get away with it again. Look at what it does to you." 

The insistent ringing of the phone pulled Blair up out of the depths of a heavy slumber. He opened his eyes, fighting off waves of disorientation when he realized where he was and who he was wrapped around. This interrupted sleep thing was becoming a real pain in the ass. 

Pulling himself up with an effort, Blair staggered downstairs to answer the call. It worried him that Jim was sleeping through the ringing. 'Super Cop' always managed to get to calls by the third ring, no matter the time of day or night. 

"Hello." 

"Sandburg. Where's Jim?" It was Simon, sounding typically . . . Simon, just a little more harsh and nasal than normal. 

"He's asleep, Simon. What do you need? Can I take a message or something?" 

"Well, wake him up, he needs to get in here." 

"Damn. Listen, he had a really bad night, um, day. He only got home, " Blair checked the clock, "five hours ago. Can't this wait?" 

"No, this can't wait. He needs to get in here and lead the interrogation. We've got to get a statement and get ready for the arraignment." 

Blair was silent, weighing his options. Simon was twenty minutes away, so if he refused, he'd have a head start anyway. The thought of being on the lam, racing out of town with Jim in tow and an angry Simon on his heels almost made him laugh, a real belly laugh, but things were too damn grim. 

A firm hand settling on Blair's shoulder made him jump and yelp in surprise. 

"Christ almighty, Sandburg! You just about broke my ear drum." 

Damn Jim and his cat's feet! He whirled around, a heated exclamation on the tip of his tongue, only to have the phone lifted out of his hand. Blair shot Jim the finger before he went to the kitchen to fix coffee. He knew Jim would be ready for it as soon as he got off the phone. 

"I'm here, Simon. What's up?" Jim grimaced, listening intently. "Yeah, I thought he might. A full confession? . . ." 

With a promise to be there shortly, Jim hung up the phone and wandered into the kitchen. "How soon before I can get a cup of that?" 

"If you swear not to make faces at me, I'll snag a cup now while it's brewing." 

"Yeah, well, just make sure you don't make a mess, and I'll take you up on that." 

"So are we heading down to the station?" 

Jim flushed and looked away. "I'm going in. I've got to take a statement. It shouldn't take more than a few hours." 

"And I'm going with you." Blair was prepared for the mulish expression and the sullen way Jim crossed his arms. Right. Just like always. Except that this time when the Sentinel started to argue, Blair jumped in before he could begin. 

"Don't look at me like that. I'm going. This isn't up for discussion, Jim." 

"Since when do you start issuing me orders about police work?" Jim arched an angry, cynical brow at him. 

"Since you came home this morning so messed up you could hardly walk. What were you thinking? I saw the news, Jim. I know what happened. Do you think you can get through shit like that without me?" 

"I was tired, Sandburg. I'd been on duty for two days and two nights in a row. Except for a couple of catnaps, I hadn't slept at all. I got through it just fine without you." He scowled in classic Ellison fashion. 

"You can frown at me all you want. You can argue all you want. I _am_ going with you. This isn't up for discussion, _Ellison_." He did a bit of scowling himself. This time Blair Sandburg was going to hold his ground. 

The half snarl on Jim's face faltered. As the anger drained away, he looked almost as tired as he had when he'd arrived home. "Damn it, Chief! This case is so fucking ugly. I want you to take a pass on it." 

"I can't, Jim." Blair moved closer and put his hands on Jim's shoulders, forcing his partner to look him squarely in the eye. He continued, "You didn't see yourself when you stumbled in here. Or when you were having that nightmare." 

Jim winced at the reminder. "I don't want you to do this." 

It was almost a plea. Blair steeled himself against it. "I know you want to protect me. But it's not working. Admit it, you need me." 

Jim closed his eyes and sighed. "You're not going to let me win this one, are you, Chief?" 

Blair grinned. "No. So give it up already." He turned back to the coffee maker and filled a mug. Handing it over, he smiled again. "It's gonna be okay, really it is. I can handle it." 

Jim still looked doubtful. "Just promise me you'll get the hell out if it gets to be too much?" 

"I can only promise you that I'll be right next to you as long as you need me." 

This time Jim gave him a grudging smile. "Okay, Chief. You're the guide." 

* * *

Simon must have been watching for them. The moment they arrived, he bellowed, "Ellison! In my office, now!" 

Looking at Blair, Jim shrugged as they headed into lion's den. 

"Jim, this is Special Agent Harrington and Special Agent Morgan from the FBI," Simon gestured to the two men standing by his desk. 

Jim shook their hands and kept his face blank. Where did they get these guys? The two FBI clones managed to look both subdued and self-important at the same time. Same height, same build, they had identical haircuts and wore perfectly pressed Brooks Brothers suits in similar shades of somber, federal gray. 

They looked surprised to discover that Blair was half of Simon's 'best' team. Jim smiled broadly at the agents, trying to hide a smirk at their slightly scandalized expressions. 

"Jim, after some discussion," Simon cast a jaundiced eye at the agents, "we've decided that you'll be leading the interview, since you were the detective in charge at the scene. Due to the sensitive nature of the case, I'll be with you. Harrington and Morgan will be observing in the next room." 

Blair stopped short of heaving a relieved sigh. When he'd seen the agents ensconced in Simon's office, he worried there would be one hell of a blowup. Jim was mistrustful of the Feds, to say the least, and for damned good reason. With a little luck, they might get through this without his partner being brought up on federal charges. 

"Here's the reports from forensics. Sandburg, it might be best . . . ." The captain hesitated. "You should probably let Ellison do the review." 

Blair tried not to wince when the agents hid smirks of their own. 

Jim picked up files. "Okay, Captain. Let me have a little time to go over these reports and then we can have McNamara brought up." 

"Twenty minutes is the most I can give you. His public defender has been waiting for half an hour." 

"Sorry, sir. I should have been in earlier." Blair felt outraged at the contrition in his partner's voice. When was Jim supposed to have gotten any rest? He made up his mind that when this case was over, he'd have a few choice words with Simon. Jim was a Sentinel, not a robot; he needed down time just like anyone else. 

Blair had the grace to acknowledge that Simon hardly ever drove Jim harder than he drove himself. But it was different for Simon. For one thing, he was seldom in the line of fire the way Jim was. Without any real depth of understanding of what Jim's senses brought into the equation, he had no idea how much it took out of his detective. 

Simon tended to see what everyone else did: the hard-assed cop, the covert ops soldier who could survive anything. Only Blair knew how tremendously fragile Jim's heightened senses could make him and what a fine line his partner walked. 

Blair followed Jim out the door with a sigh. It was going to be a very long day, regardless of the assurances Jim had given him earlier. 

He tried hard not to look at the photos that accompanied the forensic reports. But watching Jim's response was almost as hard. After the third shudder, Blair moved his chair around the desk and put his hand on the older man's back. The muscles under his hand were knotted with tension. 

"You doing okay here, Jim?" 

"Yeah, Chief. I'm fine." Jim closed the folder and ran his hands over his face. "You just gotta wonder why someone like this exists." Picking up the folder again, Jim glared at it. "I just can't stand the idea that he was at this for so long. He was torturing and killing these kids, right here, under my nose for years." 

There was a quaver in Jim's voice, one that spoke of too little sleep and too much guilt. Blair searched him mind for the right words. Words were what he did best, right? "Come on, Jim. There's no way you could have known. You may be the 'Sentinel of the Great City', but you're not psychic." 

"No, damn it! But there are so many. Twenty-seven bodies and God knows when or _if_ we'll get an ID on them. Do you have _any_ idea how many kids just disappear? Do you know how few people actually give a shit about some of them?" Jim's voice rose as his agitation increased. 

"Okay, so there's nothing you can do about these kids. But you caught McNamara, and he's gonna go down. _You_ did that. And it's money in the bank that nobody else could have. So you can't beat yourself up over this, man. You _can't_." 

Blair frowned as his partner shook his head. It was obvious he wasn't getting through to Jim. Just as he was getting ready to try a different tactic, Simon came out of his office. "Time's up. You ready to rumble?" 

"Yeah, Captain. I'm as ready as I'll ever be." Jim gathered the folders and stood up. 

"Interrogation room three. After you, gentlemen." Simon waved them forward. The three of them made their way to the elevator with the two suited clones on their heels. 

* * *

Jim's stomach was tied up in knots, and a spot at the base of his neck was so tight, he thought it might snap if he turned his head too quickly. Every question brought an answer more macabre than the last. What kind of monster sat across from him? 

McNamara had entered the interrogation room with a smile and a calm air of assurance that was beyond belief. His public defender was a mousy woman who seemed to shrink as the interview went on. She had tried to stop him, pointing out that there was no need for him to incriminate himself. But McNamara only grinned at her and kindly patted her hand, which was enough to shut her up completely. When her client turned back to answer another of Jim's questions, she surreptitiously wiped the back of her hand on her skirt. 

The stories flowed from McNamara like water bubbling up from a hidden spring; from his first victim, a young prostitute he'd taken off a street corner in Portland in late1994, to the poor kid still hovering between life and death in ICU. The body of his first kill wasn't among those found in his basement. She was buried somewhere in Mount Rainier National Park. The old man couldn't remember the exact spot, but he cheerfully volunteered to look at a map and see if anything appeared familiar. 

As the interview wore on, McNamara warmed to his tale, his bushy, white eyebrows arching and descending to punctuate his words. He paused occasionally, stroking his thick white beard, trying to remember a detail. Sometimes, he found reasons to laugh. Those moments made Jim's stomach churn. 

Catching a look at Blair's face only made things worse. His partner was pale as milk, with one hand clenched, forefinger rubbing across his thumbnail in restless motion. It was an unconscious habit that only emerged in times of great stress. 

'You and me both, Chief. You and me both.' 

After three hours, he was wrung out, his shirt sticking damply to the cold sweat covering his back. But they had what they needed-a list of approximate dates and pickup points and details about how each victim died. Maybe not enough to identify every one of the multitude of dead, but more than they'd hoped for. Leonard McNamara had been very helpful. He was, after all, a methodical man. 

"You don't like me much, do you, Detective?" McNamara asked gently. 

"I don't think it matters one way or the other how I feel about you, Mr. McNamara. The important thing is that I've done my job and now you won't be able to hurt any more children." 

"Don't tell me you're feeling sorry for the flotsam and jetsam that I've cleansed from the streets? I'm surprised. I would think that someone like you could appreciate my hobby more than most. You are one of the ones that has to deal with them, day after day." 

"That's my job, McNamara," Jim's growl held a hint of warning. 

McNamara continued as if he hadn't heard, "They rob, they steal, they deal drugs and spread disease. They are a public nuisance!" 

"That gave you no right to kill them. They were children." Jim's muscles tightened and bunched with anger. 

"They make the streets a living sewer. What kind of life is that? And how many of them manage to survive for more than a few years, anyway?" 

McNamara leaned forward across the table, his pale gray eyes glittering, revealing for the first time the madness that governed his actions. Jim held his ground, controlling the urge to shrink back, to look away from the insanity he saw there. 

"They are like stray dogs and cats. Our society has an answer to that problem-the excess, the unwanted are taken away and put out of their misery. They're not allowed to run rampant. I look at myself as a public servant, really." McNamara smiled at this, as if pleased with the comparison. "I take unwanted garbage and dispose of it. Why shouldn't I be allowed the pleasure I take in my job?" 

Pushed beyond the ability to hold back his rage, Jim snarled, "You weren't doing any sort of service, McNamara. You were simply fulfilling your own sick need to torture and kill." 

He felt Simon's hand settle on his shoulder with considerable force. He sat back and glared at the suspect. 

"Sick?" The smile was smug now. "Oh, I assure you, I'm anything but sick. The difference between us, Detective, is that I'm not afraid to take action" 

The words flayed him as the pale, silvery eyes pinned him in his seat. Suddenly, McNamara seemed hardly human. 

"You know how ugly these young dregs of society are. I made them beautiful. It's an art. I stripped them of everything but their true essence. Under my hands, their screams of pain were exquisite, their suffering a genuine delight. There's something amazing about even the lowest form of life when it gasps its last breath. _I_ gave them that, those moments of glory." 

Jim was out of his chair and reaching across the table before McNamara had finished his last sentence. Red light bathed his vision as he hauled the older man out of his seat by his lapels. Simon was only a split second behind him, grasping his wrists, desperately trying to loosen his grip. Blair was shouting something, but he couldn't make sense of it. He could only focus on the need to destroy this ghastly predator that took such pleasure in death. 

The federal agents raced into the room, right behind Brown and Connor who had been waiting outside the door. Between the six of them, they managed to drag Jim from the interrogation room and down the hall. 

"What the hell was that, Ellison!" Simon was in his face, enraged by Jim's loss of control. "You blow this, Detective, and I'll have your shield so fast you won't know what hit you." 

"Damn you, Simon! Let me stop him. I have to take him down." Jim writhed in the grip of the detectives holding him. Time shifted, tilting and tumbling, and the ground was shaking and the explosions inside his head weren't just internal anymore. "Down, get down!" 

He fought to drag his companions to the floor. Mines were exploding and his people were screaming and he couldn't stop them, couldn't make them understand. "For the love of God, stay back, get back!" The screams kept getting louder and the pain in his head was enough to make him retch. Then Blair was there, holding him and talking to him, and silence descended. 

* * *

"So what are we going to do now, Sandburg?" Simon ran a hand over the cropped hair at his temple as he paced. Blair watched him do his best to appear calm, but his dark eyes reflected a world of worry. 

"I don't know, Captain. I've been wondering for a long time when this would happen. I just never expected it to come down in such a spectacular way." He looked through the window at Jim, slumped at his desk, Taggart sitting beside him with a hand on his arm. The older detective was talking to him, getting occasional nods in response. 

"You were expecting Jim to have some sort of breakdown?" Simon stopped in front of Blair, incredulity freezing him in place. 

"It's PTSD, Simon, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. And yes, I've been expecting something like this from him for a very long time." 

Simon turned to his desk to retrieve a cigar. "I know what PTSD is, Blair. It's pretty common among cops, as you're well aware." He waved toward Taggart with the cigar. "The reason why Joel decided to leave bomb squad hasn't been lost on me. But Jim has never shown any sort of reaction like this before. It's always amazed me that he can do what he does and still be so cool and calm in the aftermath." 

"Too cool and calm, Simon. You were right to wonder. It's not normal, it's downright unnatural. Look at it this way: one of the reasons that flashbacks often occur is due to 'sense' memory, things that prompt the unconscious mind to recall something particularly traumatic. Certain sights, sounds and smells will trigger the brain to recreate a traumatic event with hyper-clarity." 

Blair stood up and began pacing as Simon sat on the edge of his desk, head tilted, listening. 

"Think about it. Jim has heightened senses, which allow him to perceive things to a depth you and I can only imagine. Even during the years when he suppressed his abilities, he still had them. Elevate the amount of sensory information that you and I would receive during the stress of combat or crises twenty, thirty, maybe even one hundred fold, and you've got what Jim experiences." 

He realized his voice had risen, and he took a couple of deep breaths before continuing. "And he never acts like he's under any kind of stress afterward. It's downright spooky. No depression, no anxiety. Hell, after Lash, I had nightmares for weeks." 

"It sounds like you've given this a lot of thought." 

"I have. And I've come to some conclusions about it, too. I'm not sure if I'm right, but it's all we've got for now." 

"What is it you think you've come up with? Frankly, after this little episode, I'm not sure what to do about him. I'd order him to spend some time with the department psychiatrist, but Jim's not going to like it, and in the past he's driven Dr. Humbolt to distraction." 

"Exactly, Simon. He doesn't respond the way everyone else does. What I think is that somehow he's hardwired _not_ to. Tribal Sentinels didn't have the luxury of taking time off to visit their shrink when they got stressed out." 

"So your theory has a tie-in with his Sentinel abilities? Why am I not surprised?" 

Blair looked out at Taggart and Jim. "Do you need us here anymore? If not, I think I'll take him home and see what I can do." 

"Sure, go on home. The statement we've got is good; Jim's episode didn't do any real damage. Why don't you take tomorrow off. We're all a little strung out." 

Blair took a moment to really look at Simon. In his concern for his partner, he'd missed the signs of the fatigue that was pulling down their captain. "Simon, you better get some rest too. You look like you need it." 

"Thanks. Just what I like to hear." Simon shook his head ruefully, "I'm going to take off early. The Department PR people have what they need for the press, and the confession is in the hands of the DA." 

Simon pushed him toward the door. "Go on home and see to getting Jim straightened out. If you can't-and there's no shame in that, Sandburg-let me know. I'll make arrangements for him to see Humbolt. Right after _my_ appointment." 

The last snapped Blair's head around. Confirmation was written on Simon's face. With an internal shudder, he wondered how long it would be before any of them got over this case. "Will do, Simon." 

Jim looked up as he stepped out of Simon's office. Blair wondered if he looked as pale and desolate as the Sentinel did at that moment. The shadows under Jim's eyes were darkened, bruised looking. If he couldn't help Jim, at least he could see to it that he got some sleep. Sleep without nightmares would help them both a lot. So how the hell was he going to deliver it? 

It didn't take any convincing to get Jim to let him drive the truck. That alone was a sign how far off-kilter things were. He was too quiet, too docile. It was unnerving to have Jim give in without some sort of argument. As far as Blair was concerned, they couldn't get home soon enough. 

"Were you listening to what Simon and I talked about?" He had to keep himself from clenching the steering wheel in a white knuckled grip. 

"Yeah. Didn't mean to, but it was kind of hard to tune out." Jim slumped back in the seat, eyes closed, arms folded across his chest. 

"So you know what I think is going on?" 

Jim's reply was terse, "Sure, Chief. I know about PTSD. I just never thought about it happening to me." 

"Have you ever had this kind of flashback before?" Stopping at a light, Blair risked glancing over at Jim. It didn't tell him anything. The older man was just as motionless as when they'd left the station. 

"No, can't say as I have. And I've seen some pretty weird shit since this Sentinel thing came along. I've never fallen apart like that before." A rustle told Blair that Jim was moving to sit upright. 

"Nobody's blaming you for what happened, Jim. It _was_ a flashback right? So where were you, and what did you see?" 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Jim rubbing at his forehead. "Christ, Chief, can't you just leave this alone? You don't want to hear about this. I don't even want to think about it, much less talk about it." 

"I'm sorry. I really am. Do you think it would be easier to talk to someone else? Dr. Humbolt maybe?" He could feel the increased tension radiating off of Jim at his mention of the doctor. 

"I hate talking to shrinks." Jim's mouth pulled down into a grimace. "It's always, 'So how did that make you feel?' If I knew what I was feeling, why the hell would I be spending time with them? I'm fine now, why worry about it? Give me eight hours sleep, and I'll be back on track." 

"Don't think so, Jim. This time it's something different. You know it and I know it, so stop trying to brush me off." 

"I _don't_ want to talk about it!" 

"You don't have the luxury of a choice here, man!" He was going to get Jim to talk if he had to pry the words out of his stubborn, damn mouth. 

"It was a long time ago, Sandburg. And it was classified. There's a lot of things from that time I can't discuss with anyone." 

Blair guided the truck around a corner while he considered how to deal with this last stalling tactic. "So tell me the things that you can. You don't need to give me any of the classified details. Just tell me what was happening at that moment in your flashback. You were trying to push us to the floor, screaming at us to get back, to get down. What the _hell_ were you seeing?" 

"Can't it wait until we get back to the loft?" Jim's tone was plaintive. 

Yeah, it probably should wait until they got home. If Jim was going to talk, it needed to be somewhere that he could relax and feel safe. "Sure, Jim. It'll wait." 

First thing on the agenda when they arrived home was getting some food into Jim. Blair mentally kicked himself. He knew that when Jim was under pressure, he stopped eating. It was a wonder his partner didn't have a bleeding ulcer with the way he treated his stomach. 

Rummaging through the cupboards and fridge, he called out, "What do you think about soup and sandwiches?" 

When he didn't get an answer he wasn't surprised. Jim had wandered over to the glassed-off balcony as soon as he'd taken off his coat. Still leaning against the door casement, he stared out at the water glittering in the late afternoon sun. Jim spending time working out his thoughts at the windows wasn't uncommon, but him not coming into the kitchen to help or at least to find out what Blair was making, _was_. Like an overgrown house cat, whenever Blair went to the refrigerator, Jim was usually right on his heels. Sometimes he almost expected the big detective to wind himself around his legs and meow. The mental picture brought a smile to his face. 

After setting the food on the table, he went over to his partner, taking his arm and turning him gently around. "You ready to eat something?" 

The opaque quality in the normally crystalline gaze troubled him. Jim was hiding his emotions behind a well-worn, but cracking facade. Blair tugged at his sleeve trying to draw him to the table. 

"Come on, Jim. You've got to be hungry. Let's eat something, and then I promise I'll let you sleep. No more questions for a while, okay?" 

Jim gave him the slow smile that always made him feel as if the sun were breaking through storm clouds. "I'll give it a try, Chief. Don't be disappointed if I don't do it justice." As he spoke, he responded to the pull on his arm, following Blair docilely. 

Blair sat him down and put a sandwich in front of him. "You'll like this, trust me." 

Jim's head snapped up and he gave Blair his first real grin of the day, "You know, coming from you-" 

"Those are the two most frightening words in the English language." Blair rolled his eyes. "That was so funny, I didn't even laugh the first time you said it." 

There was the chuckle that had been missing from his life for days. He used to think of Jim as taciturn and humorless. It was such an unfair judgement. His partner had a quirky sense of humor, oddly sparked by the most bizarre things, but it was rich and fun and gentle. Blair hadn't realized how much he'd missed the sound of Jim's laughter until he heard it again. 

The laughter seemed to restore Jim, and though he'd picked and played with his food at first, once he tasted it, he fell on it like a starving man. Which, Blair thought, he probably was. 

"How long has it been since you've had something to eat?" Blair grinned, silently pointing out how Jim was practically licking the breadcrumbs off his plate. 

Jim flushed to the roots of his hair. "Um, I don't remember. Maybe yesterday?" 

"And I'll lay odds it was something like a nice greasy donut with coffee?" 

This time Jim didn't bother answering, but his flush took on a darker hue and his ears turned pink. Blair couldn't hold back his chuckle. Jim accepted the laughter with a reluctant smile. 

"Go ahead and laugh, Chief. Not all of us can survive on the rabbit food you love so much. And you know about cops and donuts." 

It was good to be laughing with each other again. The tight bands of worry wrapped around Blair's chest started to ease. Especially after he saw Jim's tension begin to diminish, too. 

Jim insisted on doing the clean up since Blair had cooked, however nominally. While he was puttering in the kitchen, Blair made a whirlwind clean-up of his room, stripping the sheets off the bed and remaking it. 

"I've made up my bed for you." 

His partner froze, slowly placing a dish in the rack. Jim turned and pinioned him with a steely look. "Why do you think I'll be using your bed?" 

"I thought it would be best. I can sleep on the couch and be close by if there's a problem." 

Wiping his hands on a dishtowel, Jim moved purposefully across the room until he was standing in front of Blair. "There aren't going to _be_ any problems, Chief. I'm not a little kid who's afraid of the dark." He crossed his arms, closing himself off. 

"I'm not treating you like a child, Jim. That would be ridiculous. But given the nightmare you had and your flashback, I really don't think sleeping up in your loft is a good idea." 

"Afraid I'll walk in my sleep?" The words came out in a cynical snarl. Blair bit his lip in frustration. 'Damn all hard-headed Sentinels everywhere.' 

"Exactly. I'm afraid you'll go headfirst off the top. It's not weak to admit you have a problem, Jim." He forced himself not to punctuate his words with a forefinger to Jim's chest. 

For a moment, Jim looked like he was about to explode. Then he paled, his face shuttered with a curiously blank expression. "Okay, Chief. Whatever you say." Blair ached to hug the defeat and dejection from him as he turned and shuffled off to the bathroom. 

Not knowing what else to do, Blair fiddled around his room in an attempt to make sure there wasn't anything too horribly untidy to disturb the sensibilities of his partner. Blair wasn't a slob, but he did create a certain amount of clutter. His books, artifacts and mementos were all part and parcel of who he was, and they filled his small room in an aesthetically pleasing manner. The problem was that Jim preferred something Blair called 'Early American barracks'. 

After he'd done the little he could, tidying up stacks of files, stirring up some dust and knocking down a few cobwebs, Blair turned down the bed and wandered out into the living room. The long, spring day was fading away, and sunset cast the loft in a soft, rosy glow. He reluctantly switched on the light and sat down with his latest anthropology journal. Not able to concentrate on any of the articles, Blair sat there contemplating Jim's flashbacks and what, if anything, he could do to help. 

"Chief." Jim's soft call from the hallway brought him out of a reverie. 

"Yeah, Jim?" 

"I'm gonna get some shut eye now." Jim was still damp from the shower, a clean white towel wrapped snugly around his hips. 

"Okay, Jim. I'm going to read a while and then crash here on the couch." 

Nodding, Jim started to go into Blair's room, then hesitated and looked back. "I really hate to put you out like this." 

"It's not a problem. I'll be fine. Truly. You know how many nights I end up working here until I fall asleep on the couch, anyway." 

"Whatever you say, Chief. 'Night." 

"'Night." He watched as Jim began to close the doors. Before Blair could ask him to leave them open so he could listen for problems, Jim paused and swung them open again with a self-conscious look in Blair's direction. 

Blair gave him a gentle smile. "It's going to be okay, Jim," whispered Sentinel soft. Then he settled back on the couch and picked up the unread journal. 

Hours later, he was yawning hard enough he could swear his jaw was cracking. Jim was sleeping peacefully, so he felt safe setting aside his laptop and the books that held none of the answers he wanted. Blair snuggled into the cushions, wrapping himself in the afghan from the back of the couch. 

A crash and thud woke him abruptly from his doze. He bolted upright, this time wide-awake and mentally prepared for what he found in the bedroom. Jim was lying on the floor, struggling to free his long legs from the sheet wrapped around them. The hoarse sounds coming from his partner were barely human. His chest was working frantically while he groaned and whimpered and struggled to get free. 

"Ah, Jim. It's okay, man. I'll get you loose." Blair dropped to his knees next to Jim. 

Pale blue eyes met his with no semblance of recognition. "They're dead, they're all dead." 

The pain cracking the deep voice pierced his heart like a blade. Blair wrapped Jim in his arms. "Shhh, Jim. It's gonna be okay, I promise." 

Jim moaned and burrowed his face into Blair's chest. "I couldn't save them. Oh God, I couldn't save them." 

"Shhh, it's okay. Nobody could have, Jim. You did the best you could." He began to rock Jim back and forth gently. 

"Why wouldn't they listen? They had to stay back, why wouldn't they stay back?" The entreaty came out on a shuddering whisper. 

Blair felt a sudden shift in paradigm-this wasn't the McNamara case Jim was reliving. 

"Who wouldn't listen, Jim? What were they supposed to stay away from?" 

"The minefield, we were mapping and clearing the minefield." Jim's face became even more tortured. "We told the villagers to stay out. We did, we marked the area for them to stay away from." His shoulders shook in a silent sob. "I hate fucking goats. I _hate_ them." 

Blair puzzled at the apparent non sequitur. What did he say now? "Want me to help you get up?" 

He felt Jim's nod against his chest. Blair shifted the sheet, allowing the older man to heave himself to his feet. Hastening to take a bit of the staggering weight on his shoulder, Blair rolled Jim onto the bed. "Good, just sit tight a minute." Jim sat still and silent, watching Blair tidy up the mess he'd made of the bed. 

With a soft hush of air, Blair settled next to him. "Do you want to talk about it? I think you need to. This isn't about the case. This is something deeper, something older?" A flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye told him that Jim was nodding, silently acknowledging his questions. "Don't you think I deserve to know what's haunting you? Whatever it is, I think you're going to keep seeing it until we find a way to make it stop." 

Jim rubbed his eyes tiredly. He pursed his lips as if to begin talking, then paused, a long shuddering sigh coming out instead. In a voice so low Blair could hardly make it out, Jim finally answered, "I don't think I can talk about it." 

Once again Blair took the initiative, reaching out to take Jim's hand in his. "Yes, you can. Just start at the beginning. This is me you're talking to, whatever you say will be okay." 

"We were working on the outskirts of a native village. It was a . . . tense job, disarming a minefield. We'd put up signs to keep the villagers out. They couldn't read, but we put their taboo mark on them and we explained it all to the elders." 

Jim paused for a long time and finally Blair squeezed his hand and prompted him, "Go on, I'm listening." 

"I was with a buddy, hanging out on our off duty hours, relaxing." Jim turned his head and looked directly at Blair. "Adrian was my best friend, he was . . . he was someone special." 

Blair wanted to flinch away from that look, from the face that was suddenly revealing too much-a wealth of sorrow and guilt and pain, more than he could bear. Suddenly, there were tears burning his eyes, blurring his vision. 

"More than a friend, Jim?" He hadn't meant to ask that, but it was too late to call back the words. 

With a half sob, Jim whispered, "Yes." 

He shifted closer and squeezed Jim's hand again. 

Jim nodded and shook himself slightly, breaking eye contact. "These two little kids were herding their family's goats down the trail past the area. A tiny kid, maybe four or five, and his older sister. One of the fucking goats got a wild hair and took off across the minefield." 

Jim paused, staring off into space. Blair was almost ready to prompt him again when he continued. 

"I stood there watching, too far away to stop them as the boy went after the goat. I-I remember screaming at him, just screaming for him to get back. The little girl . . . I must have panicked her when I yelled. She went in after him. Then the boy hit a mine and, and oh God-ohgodohgodohgod." 

Snapping into action, Blair took the shaking man into his arms and pulled him hard to his chest. "Shhh, Jim. You're here with me, now. Okay, man? We're right here and that was a long time ago." He began a rocking motion again, petting the back of Jim's neck, smoothing the soft, sweat-damp hair. 

"Adrian went after them, I didn't see him in time. He just took off running before I could stop him. I followed him right up to the edge." Jim's breath escaped in another silent sob. " _Fuck._ It was like nothing you've ever seen. Two of our guys went in after Adrian, villagers started following them in, one after the other. I tried so hard to stop them, I tried . . . I did. And the mines kept exploding and everyone was screaming and screaming and screaming." Jim finally lapsed into silence, starring off into space. 

Afraid that the Sentinel was zoning on the ragged edge of his emotions, Blair gave him a small shake. "You staying with me, Jim?" 

"Yeah, Chief." Jim's voice was so husky it was unrecognizable. "When it was over, everybody that went in was dead, except for Adrian, and he was dying. The mine nearly cut him in half. I held him and listened to him struggle to breathe, struggle to live-there just wasn't enough left of him to save." 

Jim lifted his head away from Blair's shoulder and groaned out, "They were all dead, _all_ of them, except for that fucking goat. That stupid, fucking goat." He dropped head again and began to sob in earnest, shaking so hard that Blair could hardly hold on to him. With grim determination he hung on, trying to grip Jim tight enough to keep him from shaking apart. 

* * *

Jim stared at the ceiling, listening to the curiously comforting sound of Blair puttering in the kitchen. He was so tired, he wondered if he'd ever get up off the bed again. He'd never cried like that in his life. It left him feeling curiously empty, almost as if every emotion he'd ever felt was completely purged. Except that he knew better. The feelings, the memories, the ghosts were all still there, hovering in the shadows like the dark specters they were. 

A noise at the door drew his gaze to Blair, once again carrying a damp washcloth and a bottle of cold water. "This is getting to be a habit, Chief. One I'm sure you'd like to kick." The choked sound of his voice was almost unrecognizable to his own ears. 

Blair smiled at him. Damn, even now, Blair's smile held the power to warm him. He could live on that smile and be happy; it nourished him like food and drink. 

"It's not like you haven't been through this a few times with me." Blair gave him a quelling look. "I'm glad to take a turn at swapping roles for once." 

"I-well, I'm sorry about that, Blair. About going off on you." Jim tried not to flush, feeling embarrassed now that the crisis had passed. 

The bottle of water and washcloth landed on the bedside table with a thump. "Okay - enough of the self-recrimination here, Jim. You have had some seriously bad shit go down over the past couple of days. It's stirred up a lot of memories and trauma from your past. You know, it's not like you're the only person who's ever had more than they can handle. You're not fucking Superman." 

Jim winced, the reference bringing to mind another set of memories he would be happy to forget. He let Blair help raise him up to drink the water and luxuriated in the gentle touch of the damp cloth smoothing over his skin. Unable to resist, he opened his senses and breathed in the scent and the warmth of the body crouched over his. It was a feast of sensory delights. Blair's body heat alone was enough to give him pleasure. 

"Jim, if you want, I'll let you get back to sleep now. But I'd rather talk about this a little more." Concern shone from Blair's smoky blue eyes. "I know you're tired, but I think I might have some clues about how to help you. First, I need you to answer a couple more questions." 

Jim tried not to roll his eyes at that. Just a couple more questions. Like a dog with a bone, Sandburg was going to worry this to death-and he was going to agree. When had he stopped being able to tell his partner no and mean it? Exerting what felt like a tremendous amount of effort, Jim levered himself upright. 

"You heard what I said to Simon this afternoon. I've been wondering about this, about your reactions, for a long time." Blair looked at him from beneath his eyelashes as he settled himself onto the bed next to Jim, scooting across it until his back rested against the wall. 

"Not only do you _not_ react the way most people would to traumatic stress, there are a few things that you seem to be almost . . . at peace with. Like when you went down in Peru. That was something that most people would need a lot of time to get over. Just the shock and the grief of what happened, losing everybody like that." Blair fidgeted with the water bottle in his hand. 

Jim started to reply, but Blair held up a hand. "I know it wasn't easy for you, I'm not trying to make light of it. I was just thinking that maybe something else happened. Something with Incacha." 

"He was a shaman, Blair. He acted as my guide. You know that." 

"Yeah, I know. I have this theory about what happened. Tribal Sentinels don't have a handy department shrink to see them through the stress of their job. When you consider just how much depended on the Sentinel being able to weather whatever disasters struck the tribe, there has to be _something_ -something about how they handle stress, how _you_ handle stress that's part of it. Maybe that's why you can compartmentalize your life so easily, why you've suppressed memories so efficiently. But eventually that sort of coping mechanism has to max out." 

Blair turned, looking at him intently. "You've gone through so much, Jim. Things that would be nearly impossible for most people to recover from. Yet, you're only now having trouble dealing with them." 

Jim grunted and looked away. "I don't think about those things mostly, but they're still there. It's not like I'm not affected." Blair nodded at him and he could tell that his Guide understood he'd paid the price for his stoicism. "Incacha knew that. He did something to help me after the crash. I'm not really clear how he did it. But he, he-cleansed me." 

"Yes! That's it." Blair was visibly excited. "I knew it had to be something like that. A shaman doesn't care for only the physical health of his tribe; he's responsible for the spiritual and emotional well-being of the tribe, too." 

"So where do we go from here, Chief?" He tried not to sound doubtful, but . . . Incacha was dead. Did Blair really think that he could do what Incacha had? 

"He passed on the way of the shaman to me, Jim." Blair was almost vibrating. "I've always wondered about that. He wasn't entrusting the city of Cascade to my care; he was handing over his responsibility for you." 

Jim shook his head. "Somehow I don't think this is something you can just wake up and decide to do one day. You're good, Blair.You've been responsible for getting me on track and teaching me how to deal with my senses. But Incacha studied to be a shaman all his life." 

"I'm your Guide and he knew it! Don't you think I've been studying and working toward this _my_ whole life? He knew that I had the ability to guide you and help you with whatever you need. Incacha trusted me-can't you?" 

If he hadn't been so exhausted, he would have gotten up and begun pacing. Did he trust Blair? Only with his life and the lives of a hell of a lot of other people at one time or the other. Was Blair serious about acting as Incacha had, easing his spirit and healing his soul? He turned to look at his guide again. Blair met his gaze unflinchingly. 

"Yeah, I trust you, Blair. I do." 

"Good. Because I'm all you've got." The hint of an impish smile played along Blair's lips. He slid off the bed and urged Jim to lie down again. "I'm going to take you through some guided imagery. I want to get you into a deep, meditative state, where we can do some damage control." 

Jim closed his eyes and willed himself to stillness as Blair's soothing voice led him through familiar relaxation techniques. He didn't have the heart to tell the younger man that it wasn't going to work. He was so tired, all it was doing was drawing him closer and closer to sleep . . . . 

Blue light bathed the jungle that existed only in his dreams. He knew this place; he carried it with him always. This was where his spirit walked with the panther that embodied his Sentinel soul. The jungle seemed different somehow, too still. Nothing moved; not a breeze, not an insect, and there was no sign of the panther. From a distance, he heard a mournful scream. A sound of mortal agony. 

He leaped after the sound, crashing through the undergrowth, vaulting over fallen debris. With every step, he drew closer, and the sound of the screams grew louder. Behind the screams, a rumbling seemed to vibrate the ground. Suddenly, he broke through the tangle of leaves and branches, stumbling into a clearing. 

He was at the headwaters of a mighty waterfall, the promontory bathed in the mist from the crashing, falling water. At the edge of the precipice, the panther rolled on the ground in torment, crying out again and again as it inflicted bloody wounds upon itself. It was literally tearing itself apart as he watched, its cries growing steadily weaker. Jim couldn't bear to see his spirit guide in such pain-he had to stop it before it was too late. 

He moved forward, his arms outstretched in supplication. The panther finally noticed him, raising its battered head and looking steadily at the Sentinel. With a scream of challenge, the panther turned and leaped off the edge, disappearing into the mist. Jim never hesitated as he followed, hurtling himself into space. 

Tumbling and spinning, he was tossed endlessly through the roiling water. But it wasn't only water, it was the purest, brightest light he'd ever experienced. It was healing and purification not simply passing over him, it was soaking through him, bathing him, washing through the essence of what he was. Nothing dark, nothing ugly could stand in that light; it passed through the waste places in his soul, illuminating every shadowy echo of pain, burning away his grief. 

After an eternity, Jim finally came to rest. He was floating in a shallow pool, resting against something pliant and warm. Slowly he opened his eyes to see what was supporting him. Blair was crouched over him, but not the Blair he knew. This was a shaman wearing the braids and paint of the Chopec. 

//How do you feel now, my Sentinel? Has the water done its healing, has it cleansed your soul?// 

Blair was speaking to him in Chopec, his words similar to the ones that Incacha had spoken to him long ago. Without conscious thought, he answered Blair's questions in the same language. //Yes, my shaman. I am healed. You have healed me.// 

//It is done. You are free now to be what you must.// 

//What is that?// 

Blair smiled at him, a smile so full of love and affection Jim thought his heart would burst in response. It was all he'd ever wanted, to have Blair look at him like that, to love him. 

//To be yourself. To follow your destiny as Sentinel. To be my Sentinel.// 

//Am I? Am I-your Sentinel?// 

//Of course, Enqueri, you have always been my Sentinel. Incacha only stood in my place when you were in need and I could not be with you. My spirit has always been with you; we are one. You are mine as I have always been yours.// 

Jim smiled in return and closed his eyes. These were the words he'd waited all his life to hear. This was the final step he had been waiting to take, the grail he'd been seeking. 

When he opened his eyes, Blair was still cradling him, but he no longer wore the face paint of a Chopec shaman. For the briefest of instants, a small, painful sliver of doubt cut though him. Until he realized that Blair was smiling at him. Everything Jim had seen on the spirit plane shone from his deep blue eyes. 

This was his Blair, real and warm and loved beyond all reason, not a pale, blue-tinged apparition. Almost afraid to ask the question that had been answered by the shaman of his dream, Jim whispered, "Am I your Sentinel?" 

"You are mine, as I have always been yours." Joy shivered though him as he heard the words again, the sound vibrating through him like no illusion ever could. 

Blair lowered his head to place a gentle kiss on Jim's lips, and in the sealing of their lips, their destiny was reborn. 

-=The End=- 


End file.
